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The love of my life

The love of my life is broken. I can see her seated near the fireplace, her eyes etched into the distance, dead to life all around her. She sees me in the faraway though I am right before her eyes. Our love is now a shell with all its yolk poured out to the stray dogs in the street. Our story starts with ‘once upon a time’ but that does not make it in anyway a fairytale, just a past marred with mistakes and lessons unlearnt.
The love of my life has been widowed though I am still alive and kicking. On our anniversary she does not want my roses, she prefers a wreath. She does not want from me a sweet love poem. She prefers a condolence note, because she has walked beyond the grave and there is no turning back.
Maybe I should have slept by her yester night, maybe I should never have walked away without telling her I was out. Maybe I should have seen earlier and told her she had beautiful eyes when they were still alive, before they turned grey and pale. But how can I gather broken pieces and fix the broken saucer? How can I unwalk the path of greed that I chose? How can I tell her she matters all of a sudden when I always made her feel worthless? Maybe I should have held her hands and reassured her more. Maybe I should not have said she would do just fine. The love of my life has walked the cemetery way, who am I to propose a toast to the past?
The love of my life has walked away. Should I run after her shouting and screaming her name? Should I subtly walk to her and whisper in her ears, those ears that have turned deaf towards me? Should I walk to her and grab her arm, one that has become numb to my touch, paralyzed by neglect and cold?  But what would people think of me? What would the men in the community say about me? What will the women gossip about me when I pass before their gatherings? Should I let pride win again? It has in the past but it seems the pie has to be swallowed this time round, for she has put on her mourning clothes. Do I still have a chance to change my story and start over again? She’ll come back, she always does.
The love of my life walked over the hills and yonder, when I was seated there wondering whether to call her back to my life. She has crossed swollen rivers and walked through the blistering desert sun. All that is left of her is a few tattered dresses and the smell of coconut oil on the pillow. All that is left is dry memories to hold and to keep. All that is left is the blissful and bitter past, but why am I the only one in these memories of bliss? It is because I never gave her the chance to see what I did and have what I had. It is because I never gave her the chance to feel loved and needed. The barren fireplace is memory enough that a man is the head of the house, but the woman is the neck that holds the head in place. Sad I never knew that early enough, before the distant graves swallowed the love of my life whole, maybe bit by bit, but how did I not see the signs?

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